Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

“Actually, not really a friend. Just a chance encounter with a fellow American.”

“—is all right, and every other word out of your mouth is K.”

“Well, this is a K museum. It would be odd if we talked about Picasso here.”

I thought he’d laugh. But he did smile. It surprised me that his teeth were straight.

Then I said: “The fact is, I might almost say: Every other word I read is by K.”

The smile he smiled wasn’t just a smile. It was a glow, an aureole of ecstasy that suffused his entire face, as if he were the director of the tiny museum and my remark validated his, and the museum’s, existence.

“You can’t imagine how I am delighted to hear that. Visitors to this museum are not familiar usually with K’s works. They come because in Prague they have to see two things: K and the golem. They come from curiosity and not—” He seemed to search for a word.

“Homage?”

“Precisely. Yes. Exactly. That’s the right word. Not from homage.”

“And I come out of homage.”

He bowed his head. As if acknowledging shyly the compliment directed at him.

“I can see that…” He put out his hand. “With your permission, may I introduce myself? My name is Graf, Karoly.”

I shook his hand.

“I have the honor of informing you that”—and here he looked me straight in the eye, and if not straight then at least at the bridge of my nose, which gives the impression of looking one straight in the eye—“that I am K’s son.”

At first I thought I didn’t hear him. I didn’t exclaim, “What?” or ask him to please repeat what he had just said. I re-heard the echo of his words. No. I had not misheard. The words were the same. He said, “I am K’s son,” and I heard, “I am K’s son.” The words he said were the words I heard. Then little bells tinkled in my brain. A swirl of colors shaped like butterflies flitted before my eyes. Was that a shiver than ran down the bumps of my vertebrae? Music I had not heard in a long while played in my ears, whether folk tunes or gypsy violins or the Slavonic Dances I could not say. But something was happening in me. Then the girl in the blue beret and her fellow marcher appeared before me. I read their message — came again that stream of bubbles — and wondered if this is what they were hinting at. Was this the A Major Major Discovery that awaited me here in Prague?

I had read that some K scholars held that K may have fathered a son. On that there was no unanimity in the scholarly community. And, as usual, one camp belittled, denigrated, even insulted the other. Depending on which side of the controversy you stood, you were either a fool, a scandalmonger, a liar, a naïf, or a cover-up artist.

But that that myth should be standing before me seemed like a rather farfetched possibility. You don’t even look like him, I wanted to say. I wondered if he was looking at me and seeing any resemblance to K, the way others saw it in the USA. You know, I wanted to tell him, if we’re dealing with outré possibilities, I’m probably a better candidate to be K’s son than you.

On the other hand, Prague was a city wrapped in mysticism, even miracles. It was the only major city in Europe that had escaped destruction by the Germans, the Russians, the Allies. So there was a chance, however slim, that the man’s assertion might be true.

“No, I am honored,” I said. “Thank you for coming up to me. Are you the director here—?”

He began shaking his head even before I finished.

“—or affiliated in any way with the museum?”

“No no no. I just come here often to look and remember, remember and recall, and occasionally greet true K lovers like you.” He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head with a questioning look, gazed at me, and nodded slowly. “You know, you look more like him than I do.”

“Who?”

“K.”

“I’m honored. Thank you. But which one?”

He scratched his chin. “Which one what? What do you mean which one?”

“There is another K. It could also be Danny.”

“Who is this Danny?”

“An American comedian and film star.”

“I do not know him… That is so strange. ‘But which one?’”

“Mr. Graf, may I… I’m staying in Prague for several weeks. May I invite you to lunch one day and we can talk some more?”

“I will be so happy.” He put his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a raggedy-edged business card. He said, “Here is my veezeet kart,” as they do in most European countries.

“Thank you,” I said. I noted that Graf was his family name, but I wasn’t going to question him now on that.

Karoly Graf stepped back into the doorway. “And now, if you will excuse me, I will proceed upstairs again.”

“Before you go, one quick question, for which I hope you will pardon me, but I come from the Show-Me State…”

“Where is exact geographic locale of this Shawmee state?”

I thought he was pulling my leg or being sarcastic. But he wasn’t. I regretted using such a thoroughgoing Americanism with a man who had no doubt learned English here from books.

“It’s just an expression that means, prove it. Show me. You see, you know you are K’s son. I know you’re K’s son. But how will you prove it to others?”

And I immediately regretted my crass remark. But once words are uttered it is impossible to withdraw them.

He looked hurt, the old man. I felt bad I had insulted him. As if I had violated his essence, gone into his very being and extracted a dime-sized gland that comprised who he was in this world. He was pale. Perhaps no one had ever confronted him in this manner before.

“Do you…” he said in a voice that trembled, “…do you have to prove to others that you are your father’s son?”

I wanted to be nice. I wanted to be kind. I did feel sorry. I had the urge to be sympathetic to this tall, thin man with hollow cheeks, stubble on his face, and a prominent Adam’s apple, but nevertheless there was no holding back the words rising on my tongue and begging to let loose.

“No. But, then again, I don’t go around saying I’m K’s son. Or Jaroslav Hašek’s son. Or Schweik’s son. Or Masaryk’s son. Claims like that have to be proven.”

He leaned back as if repulsed, weakened, by the force of my words.

“I invited you already to come see me tomorrow. All the more reason now to come. Come tomorrow and I shall show you. Thank you. I now bid you au revoir.”

Tomorrow? I don’t remember him saying tomorrow. But tomorrow was fine with me. As proof, I imagined he would show me a letter from his father, in K’s unique, slanty handwriting which I would recognize. And I would apologize for my lack of trust and tell him I had a leading, nay, a starring role for him in my Prague film.

A wave of excitement akin to an erotic surge rose in me as I considered a surprise addition to the film. Not only an addition but a major — here’s that “A Major” phrase again — shift in focus. Thinking this, those little bubbles ran across my skin for a third time. I was tingling. There was a shift in me that made my previous outline for the film melt like an overheated negative. Yes, no matter what, Karoly Graf would be featured. I might even have him in the opening segment.

As if by magnetic force, or by the energy created by the astounding news I had just heard, I too was drawn back into the doorway. Graf went upstairs again. I stood near the entrance desk. An officious-looking man, about sixty, bald, hair greying at the temples, was looking at a ledger with the receptionist. By her expression, it seemed he was castigating her. Yes, I thought, he must be the director. The smaller the facility, I’ve noticed, the more self-important are the directors.